


Deadly Combination

by rubber glue (foreskinsmoothie)



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Body Horror, F/F, F/M, Gun Violence, M/M, Unethical Experimentation, medical gore, non recreational drug use, non sexual talk of genitals, referenced domestic violence, referenced sexual content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26532445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foreskinsmoothie/pseuds/rubber%20glue
Summary: The turtle trio has always been just that; a trio. It all changes when an exotic animal trafficking is intercepted and they find another mutant turtle, the worst feral mutant case the three have ever encountered in their two years of slowly disintegrating the exotic animal blackmarket. Raphael is a bit of a fixer upper-- incapable of communication, aggressive and terrified of a life larger than a four by four cage. Adjusting him to domestic life is going to be a mission all on its own. The fact that a gun toting maniac who desperately wants Raphael back is on their tails is a completely different hurdle.
Relationships: Casey Jones/April O'Neil (TMNT), Donatello & Leonardo & Michelangelo & Raphael (TMNT), Donatello/Casey Jones (TMNT), Leonardo & April O'Neil (TMNT), Leonardo & Splinter (TMNT), Michelangelo & Raphael (TMNT)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Deadly Combination

It was a run of the mill type of thing-- some Joe Exotic type is obsessed with collecting animals to pack like sardines into his illegal “Mutant Preservation” zoo, have New Yorkers paying out their buttholes to see the freakshow. Most of them are humanoid but you can turn anything into an attraction if you deprive it of all forms of affection and feed it canned luncheon meat out of a dog bowl with a forty pound shock collar to keep it in a constant state of pain and frustration. And on the side, if you want to get really despicable, put them in the ring against each other, have people pay to see steroid-pumped mutants crush each other into red paste in that drug induced rage.

Some of it’s even worse. Breeding them like cows to get more hideous creatures that are raised in even more hideous conditions- bidding them to that special breed of messed up human who get their rocks off on animals, no sense of self, nothing outside of self preservation, dogs that might look a little like humans. That’s something I’m glad to say I’ve never seen. A case so severe it might make me puke my guts out. With the rising popularity of mutant experimentation, the animals are only becoming more bizarre and more miserable. Anthros born with no eyes, deaf, missing limbs, missing jaws because some demented sociopath wanted a Burmese mountain dog with two heads.

I’m not jaded-- I’ve just seen it all my life. In fact, I’d consider myself more of an optimist. But no amount of positivity makes it any less heartbreaking to see all the mutants that had to live their entire lives in captivity because they didn’t hit lucky like us. Me and my two older brothers.

We’re in this abandoned warehouse where a batch of mutants are being transported for bidding, where they’ll probably be bred or go to a private owner. Rich people are into weird shit-- sometimes they don’t even want mutants for a reason, just a trophy for their wealth. Like “Hey, look how much useless crap I can buy! I bought this living, breathing thing I don’t even want just because I can!”. It almost makes me grateful we grew up poor. I can’t even afford the things I want, let alone the things I don’t. The latest mutant preservation zoo probably got busted and now they’re trying to get rid of a couple hundred badly bred mutants that they can’t afford to keep.

I must have gotten lost in thought because Donnie’s nudging me in that, ‘pay attention or Leo’s going to tattle on you’ type of way.

“Most of the cages are poorly put together and we don’t know if these mutants are violent towards each other. Herbivores go first, there’s a very low chance that they’ll be territorial even if they get out of their enclosure-- the truck’s already out back and the explosions are rigged to go off any minute outside to cause a diversion. All the goons that dart outside are for Casey- all the ones that don’t are for us. We’ll have to come back for the carnivores, assuming they’re still here. Don, you still have communication in the vicinity down?”

“Affirmative.” Donnie says with a nod, has one of the dozens of pieces of technology in his utility belt in his hand. “It should have every unprotected cell in a two mile radius out of service until they manage to have the cell tower worked on. My condolences to the random bystanders of Westchester who won’t have Youtube for a couple of days… I can only short out the connection to devices in this range though, once the transporters get out of my dead zone, they’ll most likely call for reinforcements.”

“Hopefully we’re done by then.”

When Leo says ‘hopefully’ that’s when you know something’s going to go wrong. That means our success hinges on our luck- we don’t have that.

“We didn’t know there was going to be so many.” I manage to get out through the lump in my throat. “Do you think Leatherhead will have enough room for them all?”

“Hopefully.” That’s quickly becoming my least favorite word, especially coming from Donnie. “If not… there’s still a lot of room from Leatherhead’s old facilities in the sewer. I can throw together a makeshift sanctuary until facilities become available. If worse comes to worse, Casey’s farm is always an option.”

“Hopefully.” Leo says through a sigh.

Then the explosives detonate and it's like someone stepped on an ant hill-- people scattering in every direction and the mutants going apeshit in their cages, rattling the doors and gnawing on the bars and more than a handful are yowling, growling, howling, and I’m pretty sure I heard a moo in there. The few that are left are quite obviously armed, probably the ones with more on the line than their lackeys. The ones who know how unhappy investors would be if they lost a whole shipment of goods.

The naked ceiling beams that we’ve been stalking in for the last ten minutes or so aren’t the most sturdy and they’re already working over time keeping roughly 600 pounds of reptile meat from plummeting to the floor, so I don’t take any chances on attacking from above with my kusarigama chain. I hop right into the action, Leo right behind me. Donnie’s going for a stealth approach, or he’s a little scared to jump from that high up. I think he has sensitive ankles.

“More freaks, huh? I bet Rubbergum would have a lot of fun with the cute one.” One of the bad guys says-- he’s got a gold tooth and is strapped head to toe with arsenal. “Think she’ll notice if it’s missing a couple of limbs?”

“I knew I was the cute one.” I really want to be the comic relief but these types of situations always put me on edge. I pull out my nunchucks and realize, with a cold dread, that I left my chain in the ceiling. Crap. “Cool gun-- know how to use it?”

“C’mere and find out.”

Well, I don’t want to disappoint him!

This one’s a little more of a challenge than originally expected, despite the fact that I know if I can just get close enough he’s as good as gone. It turns out Goldy does know how to use a gun-- several, actually. And he reloads them before I can even try to get closer to him. I find myself just wondering if I can run him out of ammo because there’s no way I’m going to move faster than the bullets coming out of his double handguns to get a handle on him.

When I try to glance at Leo, he definitely has his hands full. I’m on my own with this one.

“Am I in the middle of family drama?” Goldy asks, finally ceasing fire. I’m going to attack but then I see where he’s aiming-- a mutant. A turtle. “I bet you’d kill to get your hands on this beauty. Let’s strike a deal.”

“Let’s not.” I can’t help it. I’m effectively freaked out- not only by the sight of a mutant that looks so similar to me but so different at the same time, but also by the idea that he can tell I care enough that I actually considered bartering one life for a couple hundred others. “These are your goods, man.” Saying it like that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Why would you put a hole in one?”

“Sacrifices are common in business. And there’s more precious cargo than some of these other labmeat scraps.” Goldy cocks his gun. “I hope this wasn’t anyone important to you, pretty boy.”

All I hear is the rattling of Donnie’s backpack and I hardly have time to close my eyes before a tear gas bomb goes off. I don’t wait to find out if he was bluffing; I tie my bandana around my eyes and knock Goldy out while he’s shooting into the mist. Up close, it’s clear that he’s way too young to be doing this shit. Leo is already restraining the other two when the tear gas blasts right into his face. Ouch.

Donnie opens the door to let the tear gas out and starts loading up the mutants, who are all scream-crying in pain. I rush out and crash into Casey, then decide to uncover my eyes now that I’m not under threat of blindness. There’s unconscious bodies everywhere like confetti after a baby shower.

“What the hell?!” Leo’s coughing while his nostrils and eyes are leaking, steadying himself against the building. “We have smoke bombs! Use the SMOKE BOMBS!”

“Everyone wants to be smoke bombed, no one wants to be tear gassed.” Donnie says-- he’s got a couple of conjoined mutants on a lift and April’s hopped out of the truck to help with loading. “Plus, I have tear gas canisters! It’s awesome! When else am I gonna use them?”

Despite being one of the kindest people I know, Donnie’s scientific fascination is scary sometimes.

These things never happen without casualties. I must’ve not hit Goldy hard enough, because when I go back in to put him with the other convicts, he’s gone and a couple dozen mutants were caught in the crossfire. One of them is the mutant turtle- predictably, he’s murderous with rage now that he’s got a bullet stuck behind his collarbone, right through his carapace. He was almost docile before, but now he looks like he’s going to break out and eat someone. Aren’t turtles herbivores?

The only other injured mutant that isn’t already dead is a hyena that’s now missing half of her face and will probably be dead soon. She’s cowering in her cage with her tail between her legs, erupting with laughter. I saw on a nature documentary that hyenas actually laugh when they’re in a dangerous situation. I guess that’s true.

“Where did the other goon go?” Leo asks-- his eyes are still bloodshot. He stills when he spots the dead mutants. “We couldn’t save them all, Mikey.”

“Why not?” I don’t want to have this conversation again. I’m not only the cute one, I’m the emotional one-- I guess I’m not as desensitized to the murder of the innocent as Leo and Donnie, so I just grab a pallet jack and start loading cages onto it. Time to change the subject. “Two are injured. Can Case take ‘em in his truck?”

“The cages are enormous, man.” Casey walks in, removing his mask to wipe the fine layer of sweat that’s built up beneath it. “I’ll take whoever is in worse shape and come back for the other.”

“That hyena needs immediate medical care, take him first.” Donnie mentions while he’s loading the uninjured ones onto the truck. “I’ll call Dr. Rockwell and tell him to get ready to work on a gunshot wound to the left side of the face on a male spotted hyena mutant about 90 pounds, possible skin graft-- if he passes out, keep checking his pulse. Should I go with you?”

“Yeah, I don’t know about any of that shit. Pressure and pulses or whatever- I ain’t ever taken a shot to the face.”

I can’t help but asking, which with Donnie is the worst thing you could do, “How’d you know he was a dude?”

“Male hyenas are smaller! Did you know that female hyenas are the dominant sex in their packs? They even have an elongated clitoris in order to mount their male counterparts-- and one out of every four new hyena mothers dies during childbirth because they have to push their young out through their enormous-”

“Great.” Casey interrupts. “Just… awesome.”

“What about the turtle? He’s… pretty bad too.” By pretty bad, I mean he’s just knocked his cage onto its side with how hard he’s rattling it and now he’s on all fours, baring his teeth with his face twisted in a raw combination of fear and hatred. I don’t blame him. I would be too.

“Mikey, stay here while April and I unload the herbivores in Leatherhead’s sanctuary and Casey and Don take the injured mutant to the Doc. Keep the turtle alive, make sure he doesn’t escape-- Don, give him the tranq gun.”

It goes without saying that I’ve never used a tranquilizer gun, nor do I ever want to. My brothers and our friends are hitting the road before I can really start to debate my morality. They always give me the worst job.

“It stinks in here.” I say, even though I know no one’s going to respond. “I guess no one ever taught you guys how to use a toilet. That’s ok. I’m sure we’ll find diapers big enough for everyone.”

It really does smell rank and that’s coming from someone who lives in a New York sewer system. It’s obvious the mutants haven’t been given a proper bath in months because the ones that have fur have horrible matting, where a nasty combination of meat, shit and urine has been drying and getting progressively nastier. The reptiles are all docile, just by nature, but a few of the punier snakes look on the verge of death from starvation-- spines popping out grotesquely and long, smooth bellies bloated from fluid that’s probably a sign of failing organs. You can always tell which mutants the dealers value the most because they almost look well taken care of. There’s a two headed alligator that is so enormous it’s in two cages crudely fused together.

“I bet if any of you guys knew how to talk, you’d be laughing…”

The turtle has started to calm down now and that would be majorly reassuring if the bleeding hadn’t just gotten way, way worse. Sliding down his neck and the torso of his shell in fat rivulets while he settles down into a dog-like sleeping position, head resting on forearms and eyes lidded. It’s probably because the turtle stopped holding his wound to lay down and it looks like a horror movie scene in record time.

I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I don’t think with my head, I think with my heart. I’m fine with that if it means I’m not fine with people dying for no good reason other than humans suck.

The door isn’t even a door anymore. They welded it closed so there’s no opening it.

I don’t even hesitate to untie my bandana and reach my hand through the bars to apply pressure to the wound. Bad idea- as soon as my fingers come within biting distance, there’s a sickening crunch and I squeal at a frequency only dogs can hear- I know that much because the pitbull mutant with more mouths than necessary is whimpering.

“GOD HAVE MERCY-” The turtle lets go and I immediately know two of the three fingers on my hand are just bone dust on the inside now. “END MY SUFFERING GREAT MESSIAH-”

It’s a good three to four minutes before I stop shouting profanities and rolling around on the ground like I’m on fire (it sure feels like it) and actually start to hear the peculiar noise. It almost sounds like… laughing.

This butthead is laughing at me!

“God, what’s that smell?”

I truly don’t know how to tell Casey how prone injured or scared animals are to having unexpected and surprisingly liquidy bowel movements, so I don’t. I just say, “I need another towel!” which technically isn’t lying because I really do need another towel or two dozen. I thought the bleeding was bad before but it’s even worse now that we’re on our way to Dr. Rockwell’s and it’s not clotting any time soon. I’m glad he hasn’t gone into shock, but he’s still flailing and it's through sheer luck and physical prowess that I haven’t taken a claw to the eye. Male hyenas are supposed to be more submissive so I don’t want to know what this situation would look like if I were trying to overpower a female and I don’t want to know.

Not that I expected his condition to significantly improve considering he was literally shot in the face and the bullet is still lodged somewhere in the meat of his cheek-- at least, the part of his cheek that’s left. Mutant medical care is always developing and improving and so many things are still up in the air. There’s not exactly a protocol. Would he need a skin graft? Would he need a prosthetic eye since this one is most surely going to rot out? Is he going to survive? Even a mutant in perfect healing condition would struggle to recover from a trauma like this. I can tell he’s malnourished even under the thick fur, which is missing in large chunks in several places, most likely due to some sort of mange. His bloodshot eyes are full of puss which may be equal parts untreated eye condition, gunshot trauma, and that tear gas. I’m not a doctor but someone with an IQ of seven could tell this mutant has had a hard life that’s just been made infinitely harder, if he lives for that long.

All I can do for him is press towels to his face, restrain him, and hope we make it in time. But I don’t get my hopes up, never do. We can’t save everyone.

By the time we get to Dr. Rockwell’s hospital there’s already a gurney prepared and he’s strapped down from head to toe while the nurses wheel him into the surgery wing to go under anesthesia. There’s not even time for an assessment.

“He’s definitely going to need a blood transfusion.” I say offhandedly to Dr. Rockwell while he’s getting disinfected and prepared for operation. “How can you treat this? I just… if it’s a lost cause, tell me. I know his chances aren’t great already, but-”

“I don’t let people die in this hospital and I don’t ever label my patients as lost causes.” Dr. Rockwell interrupts without inflection. I always forget how intense he is about these cases because of how personal they are to him-- having been experimented on, not even just by some random goon, but a colleague. A friend. “We’ll remove the bullet, suture close what we can, remove dead tissue, cut fresh edges and keep him on a host of antibiotics for the duration of his stay. If he’s eligible later on and can consent to it, we’ll start looking into skin grafts. Blood type?”

“No clue. The mutant doesn’t even have a name, he’s fresh from an exotics warehouse and was about to be transported tomorrow, judging by his state… experimentation or breeding. If he survives, contact me-- there’s still mutants and there’s another one with a gunshot injury. Not as severe, but we want it treated properly before behavioral analysis.”

“I’ll see you, then. I’ll keep you updated and you do the same.” Dr. Rockwell disappears into the surgery room and the door slams in my face. He’s… never been too fond of me. I’ve never really known why but I can make an educated guess.

The hospital is a nice place despite such little funding, mostly from private organizations and not by the state. Dr. Rockwell was able to keep most of his important relationships and contracts with scientific investors, even after the incident that resulted in his mutation. They fund his hospital for mutants and other specimens so long as he continues his genetic research and sends it off accordingly. Anything not covered by his investors is covered by the city who regard him as sort of an ‘animal rescue’ type of organization. They don’t want wounded and terrified mutants or hybrids roaming the streets and Dr. Rockwell provides a valuable service by making sure that doesn’t happen.

Casey’s heated when I migrate back into his truck, this time in the passenger seat.

“Dr. Rockwell seems… optimistic. Well, as optimistic as he’s capable of.”

“If that little shit survives, he’s coming back here to get my foot surgically removed from his asshole.”

“Harsh.” This truck has been through it all, what's a little fecal matter to the poor vehicle? Needing a change of subject, I try to turn on the radio only to be blasted by death metal at a volume that should be illegal due to the threat of permanent deafness. “Is this ‘Angry White Male’ the band?”

“If ya don’t like it, ya can walk back to the freakshow!” Casey pauses and starts up the car with one of his patented apologetic frowns. They’re the worst brand of frown. Be angry or sorry, not both. “Sorry. I… Yer not a freak. None of ya are. Jus’ pissed off.”

“Oh, I’m definitely a freak. I let my flag fly proudly.” When stuff like this happens, I don’t want to make anyone feel bad. I know they mean it even if they say they don’t. It’s instinctual to know when something or someone is so different from you that it warrants a discriminatory label. If he didn’t mean it, he wouldn’t have said it. But I don’t say any of that. What’s the point? “At least I don’t have a mullet.”

“Ya would if ya could grow one, baldy.”

“I like my baldness. It gives me a certain elegance and air of prestige-- like Walter White.”

“Or Shrek.” Once we’re back on the road, I can tell Casey’s train of thought has shifted again and he’s right back to thinking about the subject at hand. The mutants. “Mikey was right. There’s a lot more mutants there than any of us expected. If we’re lucky, we get it all done by tomorrow morning.”

“Never depend on luck.” I say, staring out the window, at the skyscrapers and apartment buildings as they pass by in a blur. The sentence ‘Mikey was right’ is something I rarely hear and I can’t help but thinking that I’d rather him be right about something harmless and stupid. Like that old global pandemic being a hoax by the Chinese government, or something. “Think you could run and go rent a couple more trucks? We may be able to speed up the process if April doesn’t have to drive back to the warehouse twenty more times.”

“At this time of night? Not happening. Not to mention, it was like half a fortune for just the one. It’d be less expensive to steal a dozen trucks, get arrested, and get bailed out.”

“Good point.” I have my phone rigged to all the traffic lights in New York City, so I pull it out and start checking for any ruckus near the warehouse. No reinforcements have been sent yet to retrieve the shipment or die trying and in this line of work, you have to find small things to celebrate. “It’s unlikely, but April and Leo might be back before us. We should be able to rescue at least a few of the carnivores- otherwise, they’ll probably just get thrown in the ring but at least they’ll be alive.”

“Yeah, everyone knows carnivores are the big bucks in this shit.” Casey says unhelpfully. “I’d hate for those bastards to get even a little money's worth out of ‘em. I swear, those pieces of shit ain’t worth their salt or anything else.”

“Stand down.” He always has a way of riling himself up even after the fight’s over. I think he does it on purpose so he’s always on edge and always ready to crack skulls, just as a precaution. I know it’s a defense mechanism from some trauma he refuses to share but that doesn’t make it any less inconvenient when his explosive anger problem rears its head. “Most of those goons were kids just trying to make a living.”

“Piss off! Ya don’t make yer living selling slaves, don’t give a damn how bad ya need a handout! Go flip a fuckin’ burger, ya don’t play wif people’s freedom-- that ain’t a job, that’s some evil ass shit!”

It seems that all my attempts to deescalate Casey’s temper only result in my fueling of the metaphorical fire. Instead of pushing, I dial up April to tell her we’re on our way back.

Before I can get a word out, she says, “Can this wait? I’m a little busy.”

“Busy how?” I inquire despite the fact that if April says she’s busy, that usually means she needs to hang up in the next thirty seconds or death is imminent. “We’re on our way back to the warehouse, do we need to make a detour?”

“No, we just got back and one of the mutants got out and- motherfucker!- Mikey’s hand is broken in like- son of a slut!- nine places and the tranq gun isn’t working because- god DAMN you!- of the scales.” It’s awe worthy how calm April’s able to sound, save for the intervals where she’s cussing in a way that would put Casey’s downright foul mouth to shame. “We’re trying to get it under control but remember Leatherhead when you guys first met? Imagine him with two heads on steroids.”

“We’ll be there in ten-”

“-Five!” Casey corrects before slamming the gas and running a stop light. “Hold down the fort!”

Another defense mechanism-- I think Casey tries to act like he shows up to wipe everyone's shells and save the day even when he’s virtually useless in these types of situations. He can crush skulls but he can’t restrain a terrified and violent mutant without hurting it or himself. Not everything can be solved with violence. In fact, few things can be solved with violence no matter how good it feels to take out years of pent up aggression on people you deem worthy of a shell whooping.

I have the odd feeling that Casey doesn’t feel like being psychoanalyzed today, so I just end the call and try not to get tossed around too much on the ride.

“Mikey’s at least a little trained in first aid, I may send him with you to Dr. Rockwell’s so I can stay and help with the escaped mutant. I don’t think he’ll be much help in a fight at the moment.”

“Whatever. Hockey players play with broken bones all the time.”

If Mikey’s hand is broken, that means something with an impressive amount of strength must have done it. Mutants are physically stronger than our human counterparts in every single way-- our bones don’t just snap because we fell too hard on concrete. It makes me a little nervous to go in blind, so I’m already concocting more ways to subdue the mutant without harming it.

“She said the scales were too tough, correct? The mutant should have a soft underbelly that it’s probably protecting like it’s gold! Most reptiles do. Ok, I’ll aim for its stomach, maybe the underside of its chin-- oh, I’ll use my other tear gas canister to distract it so that we can subdue it! Or, would that just make it more irate?”

“Leo needs to take that tear gas away from ya.”

“Two heads? That makes it a little more complicated. If one head goes unconscious and the other doesn’t, does the body follow the signals from the conscious head or the unconscious head? Is it half and half?”

“Not my problem!”

Casey slams on the brakes and I’m lucky mutant bones don’t break easily- my neck should’ve just taken some serious damage. I don’t have time to criticize Casey’s parking job or the quality of his care with it because Leo crashes through the windshield. And then the two headed mutant darts off into the night, destroying the doorway by forcing her huge, bulky body through it in the process. And then Mikey peeks his head out and waves with fingers so broken they look like empty toothpaste tubes.

“Alright. I’d say this warrants a change of plan.” I say.

“I ain’t fuckin’ payin’ to get this goddamn windshield fixed! Second time! And it’s always Leo, always-”

Leo’s lifting himself up onto the hood then lowering himself onto the ground with the grace of a ninja, even though one of his eyes is swollen shut and I’m pretty sure the knot on his skull is the exact diameter of a golf ball, when he cuts Casey off. “Am I supposed to choose where I get thrown in battles with two headed mutant alligators? If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be getting thrown at all.”

“In here!” April calls, which effectively diverts the two from their petty argument. Thank Buddha! Or whatever higher power Sensei collectively decided we believe in.

The scene is sickening.

Mikey has his hand- the unbroken one- in the bars of the mutant turtles cage and he’s rubbing circles into his forehead while the thing churrs like crazy. I knew Mikey had a way with animals, but this is just overkill. It’s basically asleep and this is the one that got shot in the collarbone. It immediately brings a terrible thought to my head-- if the mutant is this calm when encountered with a gunshot wound that would prove to be fatal to a human, what worse trauma must it have endured?

I can’t think about it so I don’t.

“Someone made a new friend.” April says in that exhausted, ‘this is happening but there’s nothing I can do to stop it’ type of way. Like a mom with eight illegitimate kids going to the park for an 8 in the morning beer and a couple dozen xanax.

“We got off on the wrong foot, but I think he just had a really bad headache.” Mikey says, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “Sensei did this whenever I got them as kids and he really likes it and now we’re tight!”

He’s impossible, all empathy no rational thought. I can’t help rubbing my own impending headache at the dilemma. “Sure, it’s a headache and not the hole in its chest.”

“Friendships aside, we have to find that alligator and we have to at least try to get more of these mutants to the sanctuary. Mike can go with Casey back to the doctor with the turtle--”

“--What, am I yer goddamn chauffeur now?!”

“--And Don and I will split up to try and track the rampaging mutant down. April, are you ok to go drive back to the sanctuary without me?”

“Bright eyed and bushy tailed.” She replies in a way that suggests she most definitely is not bright eyed nor bushy tailed. “But I can’t get the rest of them in one go. A dozen, roughly, more if we just try to transport the smaller carnivores.”

“We’ll have time.” Leo insists, then puts a hand on April’s shoulder in a fashion that could almost be considered affectionate if he wasn’t staring into the distance like a morally upright and melancholic anime protagonist. “Be safe. If you’re in trouble, you know who to call.”

“Ghostbusters!” Mikey chimes. “Ooo, he’s purring.”

I truly don’t know how to tell him that churring is definitely not the same thing as purring. So, I don’t.

It’s scary to think that I really don’t know if the turtle warmed up because he trusts me or because he’s hurt and he can’t really struggle at all. He still won’t let me apply pressure to the wound but I can tell it’s not nearly as bad as it was before because there’s a lot less blood now-- his carapace and emerald skin is still stained with it but it looks as black as oil under the starless New York sky. I’ve been massaging his forehead for about half an hour now and I’ve switched from little circles to moving my fingers across his skull like I’m playing the piano. He seems to really like it, either way, and I haven’t been bitten again which I count as a personal victory. I’ll have to get him back once he’s a little more settled in but I bet my bite won’t hurt as bad as his did. My fingers are still throbbing, crudely splinted and swollen like fat green sausages.

“How’s Jack?” I ask offhandedly while Casey’s driving. He’s not even listening to music, so I know he’s lost in his thoughts. I understand it more than I think he knows.

“Jack?”

“Hyena dude. You know, like Laughing Jack?”

“Man, that’s retarded.”

I hum and go back to rubbing the turtles head. I’ve given up on asking Casey to not say slurs- is retard still a slur? I can’t really keep up but I try not to scream it at my xbox while pounding back Monsters. “I think this one’s name is Baby Cakes, ‘cus he’s just a big ol’ baby cake.”

Casey’s quiet for a moment. I start to tense up. I’d rather have him cursing at me or smacking me in the back of the head than have him staring at the road, trying not to look at me. Just say it. Say whatever you think is going to make me cry like a bleeding heart little wimp.

“Ya shouldn’t go namin’ ‘em. Not… when we don’t know.”

My blood goes cold and those words echo in my head. ‘We couldn’t save them all.’

Why not?

“Don’t say stuff like that. It’s bad vibes. Bad karma.” I respond. Baby Cakes cracks an eye open and for a second, I feel like crying. On the off chance that he understands everything being said around him… has anyone ever thought about how he feels? I’d feel like crap if people around me were talking about me like I was an object, not even an animal. Telling others not to get too attached to me in case I need to be thrown away. His eyes are a bright green that’s definitely a side effect of his mutation-- they’re like little pools of mutagen. Maybe I do get attached too easily but it’s better than not being attached at all. Like Leo. Like Donnie. Like everyone around me, it feels like. “Baby Cakes it is!”

Baby Cakes closes his eyes and I keep rubbing his head as if that will erase the memory of what was just said. I almost hope he doesn’t have the awareness to remember it, has a memory that resets every couple of minutes like a goldfish.

Dr. Rockwell is as stone faced as ever when he meets us in the lobby but I think I’m pretty good at reading people. He really does care about the mutants in his care and I know it must suck when they drop like flies whenever we do operations like this. Maybe Dr. Rockwell has a weak stomach-- I know he wasn’t really into the medical field before his mutation and before starting the hospital. I don’t think he runs this place because he likes it, I think he runs it because he feels bad and he knows no one else will.

“He’s a lot larger than the hyena.” Dr. Rockwell says while Casey wheels Baby Cakes cage into the lobby. “In a lot better condition than the hyena, as well.”

“Jack.” I correct him.

“... better condition than Jack.”

From what I’d seen of him, that wasn’t saying much. “Baby Cakes calmed down a lot, but he bit me when I tried to put pressure on the wound. I-I don’t like it but Don would probably say ‘If you have to put him under, go for it, dude’. Don didn’t say what species he was, but… he looks just like us, right? And, the bleeding got a little better!”

If the choice in name startles him it doesn’t show in his expression. He just jots more things down on his clipboard, has a few of the nurses start to lift Baby Cakes’ crude crate, probably to have it sawed open after tranquilizing him. Dr. Rockwell is sympathetic but he’s not as dumb as me. If I’d have been able to, I probably would’ve let him out as soon as worry struck particularly hard.

Baby Cakes distinctly recognizes the lack of my fingers playing Chopsticks on his forehead and looks up-- he looks more tired and drained than before. I know I’ve said it at the beginning of my monologue but it really hurts not knowing if these mutants like me or if they just don’t have the strength to fight when I put my grubby little hands through the bars to touch them. When Baby Cakes starts to develop and adjust to life, he’ll probably change the dumb name I gave him and not want me doing weird stuff like massaging his temples. There’s not enough time to get all of that out, so I crack a smile as convincingly as I can and wave as Baby Cakes is wheeled around a corner and Dr. Rockwell follows soon thereafter.

“Good luck,” I call after them, but no one responds and Casey is already halfway out the door.

I know we can’t save them all but… I hope we can at least save him.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to see any ship stuff happen later on, comment. Whatever seems interesting will go in.


End file.
